


Baby, Baby, I do what feels right

by oneforyourfire



Series: The Adventures of Big Boy and His Tiny Love [4]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, mild roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8604367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: "Wish you would take me. Ruin me, my rogue pirate.” (aka chenris have  halloween sex after taking their kids trick or treating)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Torontok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torontok/gifts).



> first chenris of 2016, first kris sex thing of the year, it's been rough  
> but i'm fucking winning~

In the time it takes Jongdae to register the shrill, electric banshee shriek, the terrified scream that immediately follows it, in the time that it takes him to understand what it _means_ —Sehun and oh fuck Tao, too—Yifan is already reacting, already righting it.

Recovering quickly enough, Jongdae's able to tug Tao free from danger, too, stumbling after his husband over the decorative tombstones, cotton fiber spiderwebs, spilled candybars to the sidewalk—safety.

Tao—apparently not as afraid—presses his face into Jongdae’s thigh, whimpers only when Jongdae threads his fingers beneath his pumpkin stem headband and through his hair, Tao’s sweatered arms looping around Jongdae’s legs as Yifan hefts a much more affected, much more afraid, sniffling Sehun into his arms. Rubbing circles into Tao’s scalp, Jongdae watches his other son curl into Yifan, watches Yifan sooth him, too, comfort him, too, father him, too, and he remembers in that moment why he loves him.

Not that he ever really forgets, but he remembers now, more acutely now—as Yifan strains briefly with the added weight, bounces awkwardly to get the best angle, and Sehun just _melts_ into him, face mashed against Yifan’s covered shoulder. Not crying, he’ll probably insist, because he’s _not_ a baby even if his dads tell him it’s okay to cry, it’s just feeling what you feel. There’s no shame in it—feeling something and showing it.

Fingers still sifting through Tao’s, Jongdae waddles awkwardly as he steps forward, strains upwards to run his hand up and down Sehun’s hitching side, too. Tao protests softly, speaking directly against the material of his black pants, and Jongdae’s fingers wander lower, kneading along the nape of his neck, placating, as Sehun pulls away from Yifan’s neck—just barely enough for Jongdae to catch his gaze. 

Jongdae offers him his dropped foam lumberjack ax, and Sehun squeezes it tight between his fisted fingers. 

The sky is already twilit, the streetlights already flickering on, and Jongdae can only barely make out the distressed tremble of Sehun’s bottom lip and clenched fists, the crinkle of his nose.

It's his “I'm really, super _not_ crying” face. It's his “I'm the hyung, Tao. I'm the ge and I don't cry so don’t you cry either” face.

And Jongdae’s heart lurches in his chest. Jongdae’s hand wanders lower, out, along the grooves of decorative orange material, over the soft cotton of his green shirt, to thread their fingers together. Tao squeezes back immediately. Hard. 

This is their first time. 

They’d taken the family car, driven minutes to the nicer suburbs because they boast the best candy—meant for the rich suburban kids, name-brand, full sized candybars, not a single fun-sized bar to be found. Boasts the best decorations, best overall experience, too, Yifan and Jongdae had heard. It’s an all-out affair, Halloween _as fuck_ , but that also means that the spiderwebs, bats, ghosts—look, sound real.

And well, his kids aren’t ready for that apparently—as much as they’d insisted to the contrary.

It’s their first time, and everyone else at school was doing it, and so could they. They’re big, too. Big even now, Sehun insists. They aren’t babies, and even if they get scared, they _don’t_ cry. But that witch is scary, baba, Jongdae can hear him arguing. Right, Tao. It wasn’t just him, and he isn’t a baby. He was just _surprised_ and why would they let ghosts into their houses when they know kids are coming to get candy. That’s so—so mean of them. Really bad, too. Are they trying to make children unhappy. Trying to surprise them, make the littler ones _cry_.

“It’s pretend,” Yifan explains, bouncing him in his arms again, straining again. “Just like that scary story that Jongin told you about the little girl in the haunted house. It isn’t real.”

“It’s just for fun. Some people think being scared is fun,” Jongdae contributes, stepping closer, straining on his tiptoes to meet their gazes. “It’s meant to be fun. They aren’t trying to be mean, buddy. Even if they scared you.”

At his side, Tao squeezes his hand painfully tight, speaking finally. “It isn’t fun,” he decides, resting his cheek on Jongdae’s denimed thigh, the stem of his pumpkin costume pressing into Jongdae’s leg. His orange eyebrows furrow on his head, lips pursing with conviction. “It really isn't. Why would people even think it was? It was scary even if it was supposed to be for fun.”

Sehun nods, and Yifan bounces him again with a slight grimace. Sehun’s plastic pumpkin bumps against Jongdae’s thigh. His foam ax bounces on Jongdae’s back. 

“It isn’t okay, appa.”

And yeah, Jongdae decides, rubbing soothing circles on the back of Tao’s hand, they shouldn’t have put that screaming decoration, should have known better, kids might be scared. And this was for the kids, after all.

“Appa,” Tao says, making that vaguely distressed sound he does whenever he’s had enough of his twin getting all the attention, raising his arms in petulant indignation or maybe residual terror. “Appa,” he repeats.

But it’s Yifan that bends first, lifting him, too, straining even more, but soothing nonetheless. Tao’s arm wraps around Yifan’s shoulder, his gloved hand lacing with Sehun’s bare one.

“Do you want to keep going?” Jongdae asks. 

And an ugly, selfish, tired part of him wants Sehun to say, “No appa, let’s go home,” because he's tired and they've had this formative experience and it's a Monday night and the streetlights are already out. But Sehun doesn’t, sniffling heavily but wiping at his eyes with his fist. He smears his makeup, but he scrubs to will the tears away, nodding his head fiercely all the while. 

His resolve makes Jongdae’s heart ache. 

Tao looks from Sehun to Jongdae before nodding, too.

“You said,” Tao starts, lifting his plastic pumpkin. It’s only half-full, rattles as he shakes it. “Said we could stay out until we filled up our bags—even if the streetlights came on. I wanna—” He casts another reaffirming glance to his twin. “ _We_ wanna stay.”

“Well, then there are at least 10 more houses,” Yifan declares, turning so sharply that the twins shriek in terrified delight. “What’s say we clean them out?”

Fond, remembering, aware still of why he loves him, Jongdae butts his head against Yifan’s arm, smiles into it when Yifan make some weak sound of protest, overloaded with kids. But he still smiles, sways to make the boys laugh again, and Jongdae loves him and remembers—again—just precisely why.

 

They do clean out the neighborhood, plastic pumpkins too heavy for them to carry by the time they load into their car again. Sehun and Tao request their special Halloween CD, bouncing along in their booster seats as they sing about creeping little spiders, crawling little cats, stomping little monsters. 

Shaken still or else playing it up, they request a bath as soon as they arrive home, and Yifan and Jongdae allow it. It's Jongdae’s turn to watch them—Jongdae knows, he keeps track—but Yifan undertakes the task himself, squeezing his hand and rubbing his thumb on the jut of Jongdae’s wrist and smiling with his warm, tired eyes.

And Jesus, it's like he's actively _trying_ to get Jongdae to fall to his knees and blow him in gratitude. It’s so fucking _unfair_ , and Jongdae stews in resentful fondness as he lingers by the doorway to their bathroom, watches Yifan scoop their children onto their bathroom sink to wipe the paint off their faces—Sehun’s comically heavy black, black lumberjack beard, Tao’s neon orange cheeks, eyebrows, nose. Watches him bend to rinse their hair as they prattle about how their gonna split their candy—they have so much. Watches him scrub their hair dry, wrap them in oversized towels. Watches him guide them back into their room, all freshly bathed and warm and wet and soft and sleepy, shuffling quickly change into their matching pajamas, their bare feet padding on the wooden floor.

Lingering to there, too, Jongdae watches Yifan read an Illustrated Edition of Alice in Wonderland then bend forward to kiss their temples, their cheeks as they start to drift off, and Jongdae steps forward to do it, too.

And oh there’s something so potently disarming and heartbreakingly perfect in these moments, some weird intersection of domesticity and arousal. Something unsettling and powerful and _hot_ about the way Yifan looks with pillow-creased cheeks, frowning at his morning coffee or in his ratty-laundry day sweats, elbow-deep in sorted laundry, something about watching Yifan bend awkwardly to dab make up his childrens’ faces, something about the way he props them on the bathroom sink to scrub it off, too. And there’s something about the way the his face looks, cast golden in the twins’ nightlight as he tucks their children in. It’s something that makes Jongdae’s body thrum with equal parts affection and desire. 

Yifan loves Jongdae. Jongdae loves Yifan. And theirs is an “I love you” meant to last forever, a life they’ve built together, and fuck, being reminded of that fact just Jongdae just wants to fuck him _hard_.

Jongdae trails after him after that, too, pauses to watch as Yifan bends down to tug off his socks, starts to peel off his tight black pants. His shirt stretches over his back as he moves, pools enticingly around his chest.

And Jesus, he's gorgeous. Jesus, he’s Jongdae’s.

Yifan is probably gonna wash off his own makeup soon, change into pajamas, too, and no—that's not okay. No, Jongdae is remembering why he loves him, why he wants him—right _now_.

Gliding forward, Jongdae turns him bodily in his arms, presses a hand to his chest—his strong, broad chest—and forces him back on their mattress, sits on his lap immediately afterwards.

“Hey,” he says, and Yifan laughs tiredly, tips his head down to watch as Jongdae’s thighs bracket his own, his fingers anchor on Yifan's biceps. His eyelashes flutter, and his bottom lip catches between his teeth. And he's always been wonderfully quick on the uptake.

“Hey,” Yifan breathes back.

Yifan’s nose grazes his cheekbone, breath hot and familiar on his skin. And his voice is so fucking _low_ —because it’s Monday and they’ve just gone trick or treating for the first time and he’s exhausted, but it fucking _does_ things to Jongdae. Even that single syllable.

Jongdae melts into him, presses his mouth to the underside of Yifan's jaw in a brief, wet, teasing kiss, and Yifan’s big, warm hands close around his waist, steadying him as Jongdae mouths at his jaw, along his throat. He smiles into his skin as he drags his lips along Yifan’s painted beard, licking when Yifan doesn’t groan loud enough into his throat. Then nipping, just to make him whimper.

This close, he can feel the helpless little tells of Yifan’s body, the mindlessly beautiful way he reacts to every fleeting touch, every wet, wet caress.

Emboldened and encouraged and still fucking glowing with the ferocity of his affection and desire, Jongdae noses down the column of his trembling throat, losing himself in the heady musk of Yifan’s aftershave, the warmth of his skin, the flutter of his pulse—fast, fast, fast. He bites again because Yifan is his to bite, kisses featherlight immediately afterwards because Yifan is also his to love and treasure, and groaning, he relishes in the way that Yifan’s neck rolls back, up into the caress.

Yifan’s hands spasm around his waist and fuck he loves him—so much, so hard. Wants to fuck him even harder. Pound his “I love you I love you I love you” into his body. Bite it into his skin.

“You’re sexy when you’re making memories with our kids,” Jongdae confesses into his hollow of his throat “Yifan ge,” he continues, nosing up up up, brushing his lips teasingly at the gold loop in his ear. He blows hot and wet, nipping lightly at warm, soft, thin skin.

He can taste the heated, heady, heavy want of Yifan’s full-bodied tremor, the helpless racing thrum of his accelerated pulse.

“Am I?” he manages, all rasped and low, low, low, deep enough for Jongdae to feel it rumble through his bones.

“Yes, the absolute best when you—” Jongdae slots their thighs together, grinds, gasps purposefully long and rich. _Yes_. “When you remind me why I agreed to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Yifan chokes on something sharp and teasing—You’re such a sap, wow, Jongdae—but presses back harder. Hot and heavy, he drags deliberately along Jongdae’s cock.

Jongdae struggles not to quake violently at the friction, catches himself with a shuddery inhale, biting again along Yifan’s jaw to center himself. 

“Wish this was real,” Jongdae notes softly, dragging his cheek against the slight scrape of Yifan’s five o’clock shadow beneath the medicinal smear of black. “Wish you would take me. Ruin me, my rogue pirate.”

“Hm, are you my pirate wench?” he asks, voice entirely too smug and unaffected, like he’s not fucking _there_ —where Jongdae needs him to be. Like he has the _audacity_ to be less turned on than Jongdae.

“No,” he says, rolling down onto him more intently, deliberate in the way he circles his hips, lets the single syllable ghost tauntingly along Yifan’s throat. “I'm yours to corrupt. I’ve never—never wanted a man like this. You’ll have to show me how.” The purposefully fluid way he grinds belies his words.

Yifan hisses, jerks, grinds forward mindlessly. “ _Jesus_ , Jongdae.”

His tone is laced with equal parts warning and desire as he lifts Jongdae bodily against his chest, his fingers rumpling the material of Jongdae’s labcoat, restless but intentional as they slide beneath the material, stumble over goosebumped skin. He moves him like he’s _nothing_ but cradles him like he's everything, and arousal thrums through Jongdae’s body, painful and potent as it prickles along his skin.

Jongdae nuzzles into his throat, whispering his name in that low, hitching way that he knows Yifan likes, rocks into him, too. And he can feel the race of Yifan’s pulse like this, the rumble of his heavy moan when he twists just right, can feel every telling little tremor of his warm body.

“Corrupt me—hmm—make me sin. Teach me _how_.” Yifan pushes again, perfect again, and Jongdae jerks forward in response, eyelashes kissing recklessly against Yifan’s jaw as he hisses in response. “Teach me how,” he insists, false supplication, affected submission, but raw, raw need, nonetheless. “Come on. Want it. My rogue pirate. I _want_ it.”

And those same hands that had painstakingly, gently dabbed makeup on his sons’ faces, even more gently washed it off, those same hands squeeze on his waist, achingly tight and heartbreakingly sure.

He wants him. Oh, he wants him. Just as much. He loves him. Oh, he loves him. Just as much.

“I love you,” Jongdae says, coupling the confession with a slow roll that has Yifan smiling, then moaning, fingers tightening around his waist. The dull throb of pain on his skin coupled with the raw affection in Yifan's eyes make his heart lurch, makes heat slide down his body.

And Yifan pauses—god, Jongdae hates how he always fucking pauses—to breathe it back, catching his eyes and reaching forward to cup his cheekbone as he says it, rubbing his thumbs along his lashline. All sentimental and sweet and soft and earnest.

But yes, Jongdae loves him for that, too, loves him for lots of things, will love him for the rest of his life, he’s already resolved.

“My pirate,” Jongdae whispers, intent on getting them back on track, grinding again so that Yifan remembers. “All mine.”

“Want to be taken?” Jongdae nods enthusiastically, sluggish as he lolls forward to watch Yifan through his purposefully lowered eyelashes. And Yifan’s hand wander underneath his labcoat once more. 

There’s need pooling in his large, liquid eyes, but he’s still too lucid, still to removed and unaffected.

Jongdae strokes his cock to remedy that, smiling into his throat when Yifan jerks, groaning when he tips his head back with a rich, dark moan.

He looks like something straight out of Jongdae’s old romance novels. A bored housewife’s fantasy incarnate. His name should be Nathan or Gaston or William, and he should have long, unkempt strands of windblown hair, sun-kissed, sea-roughened skin, should be rakishly reckless and devastatingly handsome, make Jongdae want to sin.

He does—wants to sin, wants to fuck, wants to claw and claim and come, but it’s not—not as illicit or shameful or bumbling or confused. Yifan is his, has been his for so, so long, and the familiarity of it only makes liquid, hot, hot anticipation pool in his gut.  
And Yifan is here, heavy and grounding and so fucking handsome and completely and utterly _his_. 

But Jongdae lets himself be swept up in the fantasy for a little bit longer. 

Yifan’s eyes are dark and his fingers tense and Jongdae loves the way his shoulders fill out his shirt. Loves the peek of his tan chest and the glint of gold in his ear and the need storming in his eyes. He was fucking _made_ to ravage or be ravaged, meant for sin and pleasure and heat but also love and joint bank accounts and weekly shopping trips.

“Pirate,” Jongdae whispers before the overwhelming potency of his love complete undoes him. “My pirate.” 

“Do you want to be...” Yifan’s fingers close over his hip once more, bare skin on bare skin now, his hands large and calloused and so gorgeously hot. “Taken by a pirate? Ruined by a pirate?” His fingers wander, graze, brush against his nipples in a teasing almost-caress and fuck, it’s been a while since they’ve done this. Let it build up like this.

Too long.

Yifan tugs a hand free, looping the end of Jongdae’s stethoscope around his fingers to pull it off, and Jongdae gasps—a half-formed desire, Yifan’s bound wrists, Yifan’s fingers trembling from overstimulation—before Yifan tosses it aside, presses his palm flat to Jongdae’s thundering chest. Over his clothes again. The heat from his hand, his huge fucking hand, bleeds through the material, makes Jongdae shudder. Makes Yifan shudder, too.

“Don’t know—” Yifan says, “Don’t know what you do to me.”

And Jongdae has some idea, but he nods sluggishly, watches him through his eyelashes, false demure.

“Tell me,” Yifan says, sliding forward to nose at Jongdae’s throat, hot and sweet and familiar and perfect. “Want to be _fucked_? Want me to show you how?”

“No,” Jongdae says, and he loves the way that Yifan’s breath hitches. Loves the way that Yifan needs this too. “No, Yifan,” he continues, punctuating the statement with a smooth, smooth roll of his hips. His ass grinds back in a lazy, false, false promise. “Ride me.”

Yifan chokes, then groans, moves Jongdae like he’s nothing again, switching their positions, straddling his lap after tugging off their clothing, stumbling for lube, a condom. 

And climbing into his lap to stretch himself, Yifan’s more efficient less teasing than Jongdae likes it, none of that sweet agony of almost grazes and lingering touches, no cruelly twisted fingers or crooking motions meant to tear at Yifan’s resolve. He’s quick, quiet, too, only the gentlest moans, the most soft, excruciatingly slick pops and wet strokes for Jongdae to know what he’s doing.

“Yifan,” Jongdae says, as Yifan quakes, curls a third finger inside of himself, face pinched like he just can’t fucking _wait_ to have Jongdae inside of him, can’t fucking wait like Jongdae can’t wait either.

 _Let me see. Let me, let me, let me_.

Jongdae squeezes his hips, tips him back, and Yifan, understanding, undulates on top of him, legs spreading, spine bowing, fingers working faster so that Jongdae can get a proper look, groan in heated, desperate want.

Flushing—further, Yifan goes even faster. And his tan, strong thighs dimple with goosebumps, ripple with tight tremors of pleasure as he gets the angle just just just right. His face twists so gorgeously with pleasure, body jerks so gorgeously with it, too.

Face pressed into his own shoulder, he hiccups on a series of whimpers, grinding against Jongdae’s tense stomach, artless and graceless and mindless with desire.

“Ride me,” Jongdae pants, and Yifan whimpers so needily. _Fuck_ “Come on, ride me. Take me.”

He’s too big—his big, big boy—and the size difference to pronounced for them to do this often. But it’s Halloween, and Jongdae has already decided that he wants it. And well, Yifan has always been eager to go along whenever the whim strikes, sinking onto him with a long, long moan after bracing himself on the rumpled sheets beside him. 

And oh, oh _fuck_. 

Yifan’s tight around him and slick and hot and exquisitely velvety soft, and Jongdae pants into his collarbone just briefly briefly briefly floored by the pleasure because Jesus fuck fuck _fuck_.

But Yifan isn’t faring much better, utterly ruined already, Jongdae can tell. He noses downward to press his mouth to Jongdae’s, moaning brokenly into the wobbly kiss as Jongdae shifts inside of him.

Shifting minutely, panting past the agonizingly perfect friction, Jongdae thrusts shallowly, and Yifan lips tremble against the seam of his mouth. His whimper tastes so, so sweet. All shuddery and wet.

“Thought—” Jongdae says when Yifan clenches, rocks downwards, slow and clumsy with need. Jongdae pushes upwards once, sharp, fast, and oh, he loves the way his body just fucking shudders for him. “Thought I was gonna be taken. Hard,” he notes. “Fast.”

I thought, he means, you were gonna ruin me.

Yifan, still adjusting, swivels his hips shakily, scrambles to fist the sheets by Jongdae’s thighs, lifts weakly, moans softly as his body fucking pulses around Jongdae’s cock.

His head tips back and his thighs tremble so hard that they knock against Jongdae’s, and his knees skate restlessly, gracelssly against the sheets. It’s been so long and they’re so unused to this.

His hands stutter, flutter helplessly, mindlessly, clenching and unclenching sporadically. Like he can’t decide whether to touch himself, touch Jongdae, brace himself to bounce faster.

But fuck, fuck, fuck. He loves it. Needs it. Wants it.

Jongdae’s own hand stumbles forward to stroke him, and Yifan tips sharply back, bracing himself on Jongdae’s thighs. He’s all long, long, long lean lines, the muscles dancing beneath his flushed golden skin.

He’s tighter like this, more vulnerable, and utterly consumed by pleasure like this. And God, he’s gorgeous like this. His wrecked, gorgeous husband. All flushed and disheveled and handsome and fucking _wrecked_ with desire for him, clumsy with desire and need as he works faster faster faster.

“Take me,” he says, hating the rasp ruin of his own voice, hating the way his fingers tremble at Yifan’s waist. “I’m yours. Take me.”

Harder, he means. Faster, he means. Use me. Come on. Use me, Yifan. You never ever take. Be selfish for once. Use me. Use me up.

And bless him for fucking know. Knowing without needing to be told.

Yifan digs his fingers into Jongdae’s chest, and Jongdae collapses back just to enjoy it as Yifan works himself faster, harder, his hips twisting on every drop. Yifan establishes a good, steady, hot, hot rhythm, and Jongdae moans sharply at the dance of tight, greedy, greedy muscles against his cock, the sting of fingernails against his skin. And the sight. God, the fucking sight. The fucking sounds.

Yifan’s skin glistens with sweat, his face pinches with pleasure, his own moans ruined, ruining, and Jongdae is utterly captivated and already so fucking _close_.

Tomorrow, it’s a Tuesday. Yifan will probably taste like caffeine when he kisses him, smell like their sensitive skin fabric softener as he presses him bodily to the refrigerator, insisting that Tuesday kisses need to be longer than Monday kisses, he needs more energy. And he’ll bend to kiss his sons, too, ruffling their hair and pinching their cheeks when they squirm too much. And he’ll text him during work on his lunch break to tell him that he loves him, asks how his lunch is. And he’ll come home to him afterwards, as soon as he can manage. Over and over and over again.

Yifan’s his, and he’ll be his for the rest of the life, he’s fucking promised.

And God, Jongdae loves him. Loves him so much.

His fingers tighten, stroke quickens, and Yifan fucking quakes, fucking whimpers as he comes. Teetering as he jerks with the low, shivery aftershocks of orgasm, he collapses fully on top of Jongdae, trembling so gorgeously, lips open in a drawn out moan that Jongdae feels thrumming through his fucking bones.

He’s limp, achingly useless and boneless with orgasm, and Jongdae tosses him back into the mattress, folds his long, long legs around his waist. He grinds into him harder, knowing he can take it. Needing him to take it. Take his everything.

Yifan’s head tosses back, dark hair fanning, jaw slackening, face pinching, long, sweaty limbs shuddering, his softening cock shaking with every helplessly desperately deep, deep thrust. He’s a beautiful, rumpled, sweaty, sated mess, crumbled up like that in their bed.

And fuck, Jongdae just just just wants—wants to fuck him hard and aching again, fuck him shaking and sobbing from overstimulation, take him to the edge once more and force him over. Wants to keep keep _keep_ giving, for Yifan to keep, keep taking until Jongdae’s had his fill. Until they both have.

Overheated, overcome, he scrapes his fingers along Yifan’s hip, his thumbnail dragging over the looping scrawl. _Property of Kim Jongdae_. “Mine,” he groans, or whimpers, or begs as he slams into him again again again, needing to sear it into his skin, pound it into his body. Needing it with every quivering cell in his body.

My husband. My love. My forever. Mine. Mine. Mine.

A litany, an echo, a mantra, a prayer as his body seizes suddenly, sharply, shakily with pleasure, orgasm wrenched out of him, tearing through his body, tearing him apart.

**Author's Note:**

> this is approximately 21 days late, but...idk let me live
> 
> #buyjulyonitunes


End file.
